Recondition, Reprogram, Reactivate
by Amory Vain
Summary: Prompt: "AU of Proof of Purchase: What if Alec had sucessfully bought White three barcodes?" Ames/Alec, Alec/OMCs, Logan/Alec pre-slash; warnings for dub-con and character death.


**Recondition, Reprogram, Reactivate [[1091 Words]]  
**_Dark Angel  
_Alec/Ames, (implied past) Alec/OMCs  
set post-"Proof of Purchase." AU  
angst, dubious consent, character death

* * *

_recondition_.

"I must say, 494, I didn't think you could do it." That sardonic smile is hard to look at, but you force yourself to meet the man's gaze. The expression, however, is impossible to match, so you scowl, defiant.

"Well, I did, so why don't you hurry up and get this thing out of me?" You glance at the watch again—ten minutes and counting down. You made it back, but just barely, and that grim sense of accomplishment is giving way once more to the worry knotting your insides.

Ames smirks, checking his own watch, "In due time. Your self-preservation instinct is remarkably strong, isn't it? Or is it simple disregard for the life of your fellow—creature? Maybe a little of both?"

He's wasting time! The clock is ticking and he wants to _chat_. You shake your head, pushing back the panic. "Conversation wasn't part of the deal, man."

"Maybe the deal's changed," Ames snaps, eyes narrowing. "You only killed three of them; I've got a feeling we can get a lot more out of you than that, 494."

And just like that, you're owned again, back to being property. It shouldn't surprise you how easy it is to go back to the lifestyle—assassinating Xs and nomalies instead of humans this time, but they all bleed the same, gasping desperately as their lives ebb, that same look of disbelief etched on their faces. It's easy to do, easy to kill and collect evidence, to return to base for examinations and debriefings.

Easy to drop to your knees and open your mouth for another authority figure, to ingratiate yourself any way you can. Easy to be pliant and willing and (_oh, god—oh, fuck—so fucking—_) good, on the off-chance that maybe, when it comes time to trim the ranks again, X5-494 will be considered too valuable for elimination just yet.

* * *

_reprogram. _

Months pass, and—well, you really can get used to anything, can't you? You learn to accept their orders, their missions and their debriefings and their _derision_. You accept it, the way they treat you, like a tool—a well-used weapon, an object. You should be working on escape, using that tactical training for something other than what you don't ever let yourself call _murder_.

But it's easy, it's easy to slip back into that role, and you never admit it, but maybe sometimes you'd missed this about Manticore, the routine. The way you can just lose yourself in their logic and protocols.

And you do; you slip away sometimes, mind going blank as you work your knife around another tattoo, peeling back the skin in a way you'd never call _practiced_. You dissociate, numbness creeping in as the bed creaks, as he rocks you forward, rocks into you, mouth working a bruise over that barcode he'll probably collect himself one day. You let him use you, and maybe you wonder if he tastes the bile choking you when you kiss, but you never ask.

You never ask, because you've always known better than to speak before spoken to, and maybe you need this. Maybe you couldn't handle the real world, its decisions and independence and moral shades of gray. Maybe you need to be told what to do, so maybe it's better this way; after all,

"You had your freedom, and you still ended up back here." He says, fingers in your hair, almost-caressing before he pushes you downward, your lips grazing his navel.

And that's true. You don't have to say it; the scar on the back of your neck is evidence enough.

When Max asks you why, eyes wide and chest heaving as she backs into that proverbial corner, you tell her _she's_ the escape artist, she and your twin, and you, you've just gotten too good at following orders to stop now.

* * *

_reactivate._

"I guess it's that self-preservation instinct after all," you almost tell him, but Ames wouldn't hear you if you did, so you don't speak. Instead you turn, dropping that syringe full of whatever (well, whatever plus _blood_, now), the one meant for you, the one that most people wouldn't think of as a deadly weapon—of course, most people aren't like you, and if they were, you've probably killed them by now.

You step outside, wiping your red-stained fingers on your shirt, and it should seem ironic that the one sunny day in Seattle is the day you've killed seventeen armed men with your bare fists and a _needle_. But irony's never really been your thing, and you're otherwise occupied right now, considering the fact that your only friends on the outside are dead or looking to kill you.

You've got nowhere to go, and you need to get out of these clothes; you should go in and change. But you can't bring yourself to go back inside, so you start walking.

When you wake up, it's dark outside, but the lights are on in the apartment, and you can see the muddy tracks you left across the carpet, the reddish-brown stains your fingers rubbed into the couch cushions. You could see them if you looked, but you don't, because Logan is watching you, unsteady grip on the handgun he's aiming at your forehead.

"I should kill you." When he speaks, his voice quivers with an emotion you can't quite identify. He cocks the weapon, and the sound is deafening in the still room.

"I know." You sit up and show him your hands, palms forward, to assure him that you're unarmed. Which is probably no comfort, since he watched you choke that X6 boy to death last month outside Josh's place—and you didn't have a weapon then, either. "I—I killed White. I killed all of them." You meant it to placate, to convince him not to shoot you, but you say the words like they're a confession. Someone else's dried blood flakes off your fingers and flutters to the floor when you fidget. "I didn't know where else to go."

Logan flinches and all but snarls his response, shifting his grip on the pistol. "Anywhere but here. You could've gone anywhere but here."

"I'm sorry." You don't know why you say it, except you are, and Logan's just as surprised by it as you are right now. "I guess that doesn't change anything."

Logan shakes his head, looking so tired all of a sudden, and after a moment he lowers the gun. "Take a shower, Alec. We'll figure out what to do from there."

It's a start, anyway.


End file.
